“During this time be blind, and cut away all desire of knowing, for this
will hinder you more than it will help you. It is enough that you feel moved .”

The Cloud of Unknowing

After the storm has passed over, the whole
Saturated earth heaves, and the cold stars,
And the sinking, wounded moon, withdraw
Again behind rising, silken vapors. Slow.
That is the experience. A motion like a vagueness
That says: “Slow”. We know that something
Momentous is underway, that the emergence
Of something ancient in ourselves,
Whose cravings, after four-billion years
Of evolution, are inexorably dissolving
The simulacra of a quantifiable identity
To reveal the rugged primitive of what we are.
Slow. And yet, even in the midst of our fetish
For surfaces, these timeless mists remake
Nothingness into a vast being, a being
Alert to the ceremonies of this most potent darkness,
Which extends infinitely in all directions at once.
Slow. Space. Gone. And yet here, just here,
In the slow, in the space, in the absolute stop,
At the extreme edge of disintegration,
Beyond the fears of the contemporaneous,
We meet our twin, the forever incomplete vagueness,
Who erases the last vestiges of our skin,
And makes us one with starlight and with night.